Good Indian

by Richard Hartwell

I am from Oklahoma City,
At least my father was,
Off the reservation and into Christianity;
Raised a Bible-Belting Baptist with Spirit.
I am from a land of unbroken horizons,
Starry skies, heat with high humidity; now
with Grandfather’s hatchet, memories, and love.

I am in Vietnam,
At least my body is,
Burdened with weapons, boots, and rules,
Weighted down with the profanities of death.
I am in the jungle, humping through mud,
Humid horizons of mountains and swamps,
Water above and below, a baptism of shit.

I am going to heaven,
At least my soul will,
Native to this land and real American heritage;
On moccasin feet, I slip slyly in, to sit, and
Pray to go to a happier hunting group, back
To see the great eternal plains and to hold
Quiet dialogue with our great forefathers.